#some rhymes

[rosy-cheeked-girl]

along the way

have you someplace to be? I think we’ve someplace to be. and we’re on our way to somewhere—somewhere good and bright and colorful, where our whimsy will have a place to grow. won’t it?

we have someplace to be, you and I, so we might as well enjoy the journey. and when we get there, there’ll be golden horns and sunshine, and the pavements will be silver and we’ll finally know what it’s like to sing when nobody cares what your soul sounds like.

if there’s someplace to be, for you and I, and it’s not just a figment or a fragment of some dream from yesterday, we can make memories of it along the way. there’s this journey ahead, and I know it and so do you, but together we can teach ourselves to dance the nights away. whatever else happens, there’ll be me and you and—

our someplace to be. it’s one thing to know that you could be free, but you and I have the memories of it. we have walked this path already in our dreams, and known what it is like to see the colors bright and hear the music strong and set our souls alight and sing—

we have someplace to be, and we’ll get there. just you wait and see.

[ceejay-silvertongue]

Faith

faith, a gift of hope

and belief

in trying times

you’ll come out fine

in the end;

yet forming something

non-existent in the face

of religious spies

mixed with the crowd

and calling out lies

brainwashing those

naive and gullible

children, lost in the

field that is life;

can we not?

just return to your homes

and live with hope in your hearts

and faith in your dreams

to live with love in your eyes

and wide open arms,

because acceptance isn’t fatal

but religious lies are

[rosy-cheeked-girl]

story of my life

if my life was written like a book, it would say: once upon a time, there was a girl who lived her life story to story.

if my book was written like a story, it would say: there once was a girl who was made of stories.

if my story was written like a song, it would say: if all stories filled any girl’s heart, this one’s the one with whom you would start.

if my song was written like a fairytale, it would say: there was a girl, once, who spun through life as if it were her story.

[rosy-cheeked-girl]

oh, the questions

how to begin? how to tell you how I fell, how I feel?

what do I do, what should I say? what would you like to hear? what will you reply?

who am I to feel this way? who are you to be so lovely? who would wait this long, who would not know what to say?

when will I find the words? when will I know what works? when will I ever have this chance again, when will I see the courage within?

where have you been all this time? where were you when I needed you, where were you when I called? where are you now?

why are you so near to me and yet so far? why are you so dear to me, why do I feel this way? why am I asking myself when I know there’s no reply?

why you, why now? why bother asking where, when, who, what or how?

[surreptitiouslysatisfying]

Words Mean Everything To Me.

Words are the unrequited outcasts of society. Regarded as easy, innocuous, trivial and elementary. As if any simple act of the body can undermine the skill of the hand and wit. That it is unmanly to belt out a line of rhyme, with face and all, tone and pitch, body and soul. I pity their bags of withering bones.

"Actions speak louder than words." I'm stinging sultry by the stiffening second. Have you ever wrote? Have you ever stayed up for five damning hours in the deafening silence of darkness, in your room, nothing but yourself to have company? Only to write a poem, a story, a prose to your liking? Or maybe to someone you care for? You don't know the stress, the incessant importuned impaling of your insides clamoring for instant satisfaction because of something you're having a hard time finding ONE SIMPLE WORD FOR. What mutiny to the repercussions of humanity. Those lines are there for what reality could not uphold, for it is limited, falling short by the crescendo, leaving a bitter, longing taste at the back of your throat. Which is why you choose the unbridled pulsing of writing it, to have your audience traverse yonder, without reins, to places and feelings not even the world could permit, let alone imagine.

I'm not here to change your opinion, only to balance it. The streaks of black on white fields you see now are at a losing race, though it is not too late to have a change of pace. The endeavor of actions have done their good will, there is no argument there. But to forget the written word... I can't even utter a metaphor to compare. And you will walk on life, never really having lived. That is much to be said, why waste the willful wonder of words for the woeful wistfuls of the world?

[dookimooki]

No sense whatsoever.

Voice your opinion alongside detention, approach the roach while singing and dancing. Turn the tides with different sides and talk out loud to the howling hound. Riddle me this, riddle me that, a heart warm companion comes to harm. But fear not for the days will come, when the tear will not drop from the rejuvenated moon.